


Sail

by excusethedisorder



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-01
Updated: 2013-09-01
Packaged: 2017-12-25 07:36:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/950423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/excusethedisorder/pseuds/excusethedisorder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the boat going from King's Landing, Sansa has a question for Petyr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sail

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this a while back and never posted it -because it’s so shitty- but what the hell!   
> This is kinda smutty, but pretty bad, kinda angsty, but not really, and entirely OOC.

Sansa softly knocked on the hard wooden door of Lord Baelish’s cabin. They had left King’s Landing in such a hurry she still hardly believed all this was really happening.

“Come in.” Petyr’s voice answered firmly on the other side of the door. Sansa took a deep breath and turned the handle. Petyr was sitting by a table, quill in hand and books all around him. He looked at her with piercing eyes, a questioning look on his face. 

“What is it, Sansa?” She shifted uncomfortably under his insisting gaze and looked up.

“I just wanted to thank you for everything you have done for me, my lord.”

“Why, there is no need to thank me again, Sansa, you have done so quite enough since the beginning of our journey.”

A slight smile appeared on his mouth, yet his eyes stayed cold and calculating. The reason Sansa had come into his cabin that night was not to thank him, but to ask him why he had risked everything to help her. It had been on her mind since they first boarded the ship, the words just waiting to pass her lips, yet every time she intended to question him, Sansa decided against it, her resolution wavering under his piercing gaze. She wanted this time to be different, but the oppressive atmosphere of the small cabin and the waves gently rocking the ship back and forth made her dizzy.

“Is there anything else, Sansa?” Inquired Petyr impatiently. He had been hard at work before she came in, but watching her stand there, her face betraying her inner turmoil was enough to make Petyr forget about the amount of work he still had to do. He stood up swiftly and took two quick steps in her direction. 

“I am your friend, I hope you know that. You can tell me anything, sweetling,” said Petyr, faking a concerned tone. 

Sansa took her courage in both hands:

“I- I just wanted to know why,” she mumbled, “I just wanted to know why you risked so much to help me get away” 

Tense and motionless, she waited for Petyr’s answer.

Petyr let out a small chuckle, held out his hand and led her to his bunk. They sat next to each other, and Petyr turned slightly to face her.

“I liked to think of myself as one of your father’s loyal friends,” he lied cunningly, “And as you know, I was raised at Riverrun, with your mother. I believe it was my duty to them to help you get away.” He reached for a loose strand of her fiery hair and tucked it back behind her ear. “You look so much like her…”

Sansa let a sigh of relief escape. Petyr’s answer had satisfied her and she knew she could trust him. He had said he was her friend, after all. Her shoulders relaxed for a split second, and she suddenly tensed up again as she felt Petyr’s hand rest on her thigh.

“You have the same eyes, you know, with the same passion and innocence in them.” Sansa sat very still, her eyes riveted to the ground, not knowing how to react.

“My lord, I-“

“Look at me, sweetling.” Blushing, Sansa raised her head to meet his gaze. She felt as though his hand was burning through her gown, right into the tender flesh of her thigh. She thought she saw something in his eyes more than the usual indecipherable steel. He raised his other hand and slowly traced the side of her jaw with the tip of his finger.

“The same delicate features…” his voice trailed off. Sansa squirmed awkwardly under his touch. She could feel butterflies in her stomach and a strange heat stirring in her loins mixed with apprehension.

“Am I making you uncomfortable, my lady?” His tone was mocking. She cleared her throat and tried to sound as calm as possible, though she feared her shaky voice betrayed her emotion.

“Of course not, Lord Baelish.”

“Very well, sweetling, because there is something I’ve been meaning to do.” 

As he uttered those words, Petyr leaned in and kissed her. It was not the soft and romantic kiss she had been dreaming of since she was a little girl; this one was hard and demanding, yet somehow sensual. Petyr’s lips crushed against hers in urgency, guiding her and taking control. Sansa felt completely powerless. Petyr’s hand on her thigh roughly gripped the fabric of her gown, and for a moment, Sansa was afraid he’d rip it. She put both her hands on his chest to push him away, but couldn’t find the strength to. Instead, she slowly started to give in.

When they broke the embrace, they were both breathless. Petyr looked at Sansa’s flushed cheeks and heaving breasts and felt a pang of desire course through his body. Though acting on his attraction to Sansa was not part of his plans – at least not right away  – He couldn’t help but feel the irresistible need to.

Sansa felt dizzy. Her head was spinning and she found she ached for Petyr’s embrace. The stirring in her loins had become a burning fire. They spent a few seconds staring at each other until Petyr pushed her down on the bed, his body pressing down on hers, and pinned her arms above her head. Sansa let out a surprised cry. She could feel Petyr’s weight on her body, but it somehow didn’t bother her. She unconsciously started to spread her legs apart under him. His mouth was on hers again, kissing her hungrily and she could taste the faint hint of mint on his breath. Petyr went from her mouth to her neck, leaving a trail of rough kisses along her jawline. She let out a small moan and Petyr gazed into her eyes, a self-satisfied smirk on his face. 

“Be careful or you’ll wake up the whole crew,” he said, sternly. “I don’t enjoy sharing.”

Sansa turned crimson from embarrassment and bit her lower lip, silently promising herself she wouldn’t make any more noise. Her gown had bunched up around her legs in the heat of the moment, and she felt Petyr’s hand starting to wander on the smooth inside of her thigh. Thousands of thoughts were swarming in her head. Everything had happened so fast; she hadn’t even had the time to say no. Should she let him do this to her? Was it wrong she actually enjoyed it? Sansa was scared. True, she had been wed, but never bedded, as Tyrion didn’t consummate the marriage. Did Petyr know she was a maiden? Shouldn’t this be reserved for her husband? What was Petyr going to do to her? Sansa started to worry.

“Lord Baelish…” She whispered. 

She couldn’t help but moan again as Petyr’s hand roamed dangerously close to the sweet spot between her thighs.

"Lord Baelish please... Stop."

Sansa was breathless. Her mind desperately wanted Petyr to stop but her body was craving for more. She suddenly arched her back and grinded her hips against him as his fingers reached his goal. This time the moan was louder.

"No, my lord, don't..." Sansa managed. "Stop, please." She was incredibly wet down there, and Petyr’s fingers were slowly rubbing the tender pink folds, teasing her. 

"Don't stop?" Replied Petyr. "Believe me, sweetling, I was not intending to." He leaned to kiss her again, but she turned her head to the side. "I- I don't want this" she whispered, afraid of his reaction.

"It seemed to me as if you did, Sansa" he said smiling wickedly, and as he uttered the words he roughly pushed one finger inside of her, and then two. Sansa gasped, pain and pleasure coursing through her body.

"Please my lord." She said meekly, despite loving every moment of his touch. "I don't think this is a good idea."

Petyr was still on top of her, Sansa’s thighs spread out between his legs, her messy hair creating a halo around her flushed face. Her mouth was slightly open, and she was breathing hard. He leaned in, softly bit her earlobe and whispered firmly.

“You are mine now, Sansa. And you will do as I say. Is that understood?”

He got up from the bunk and poured himself a glass of wine from the table. Sansa was still lying on the bed, heart pounding and ears ringing. She felt so… empty. She missed the warmth of Petyr’s body pushing down on hers. She swallowed with difficulty.

“Look at you.” He said, his voice laced with mockery and amusement. “You look like a wanton whore from one of my brothels.”

Sansa felt the tears pooling up in her eyes. Petyr was right, that was exactly how she had acted. She was so embarrassed, and now he seemed angry with her. She slowly sat up on the bed, straightening her gown to preserve the ounce of dignity she had left. Petyr laughed internally at her humiliation. He found he loved making her feel powerless and guilty of things that were not her fault.

She slowly got up, feeling her knees buckle under her weight. _I’m going to make this right_ , she thought. She felt as though she somehow owed it to him and that she had been wrong to stop him. She walked up to Petyr, feeling his burning gaze on her body. She stopped just inches away from him, and stood on her tiptoes in order to reach his mouth. She planted a hesitant kiss on his lips. As she pulled away, Petyr roughly grabbed her hair and pulled back. The bruises on her throat from his earlier treatment were beginning to show.

“I thought this wasn’t what you wanted. You should know better than to push me, sweetling.” 

His tone was low and threatening. Petyr stared harshly into her pleading eyes.  A fleeting look of hesitation passed on his face. Should he give in to his desires? _Not yet_ , he thought. _She is not fully ready_. He slowly let go of her luscious red hair and took a step back, gathering what little self-control he had remaining.

“Get out.”

“Lord Baelish? I-“

“Get. Out.”

 Sansa knew his voice did not call for any answer. Feeling rejected and humiliated, she flattened the fabric of her gown with the back of her hand and fixed her hair as best as she could before softly closing the door behind her.


End file.
